


Two Lost (Lonely) Boys

by thelostrocketeer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Camden Lahey - Freeform, Death, Family, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, I don't even know wy, I suddenly had this pairing feels and I need it to happen, M/M, Sadness, Sleep, Stilinski halfway house, Ugh, crashing, implied sterek, un-beta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostrocketeer/pseuds/thelostrocketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac needs a place to crash. Scott sends him to Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Lost (Lonely) Boys

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Mentions of past child abuse/trauma.

He turns up one night in typical werewolf style- tapping on Stiles’ window, covered in dirt and blood. And of course, Stiles (being the kindest most generous human being on the face of the Earth) lets him in. (Isaac wearing an expression that makes one feel like they accidentally stepped on a puppy helps.) 

(A cute, extremely fluffy puppy.)

Isaac clambers in, all long limbs and awkward gestures, tracking dirt everywhere. (One of these days, the Sheriff is going to ask him why he has to scrub his carpet so often and Stiles is going to have a Real Good Time explaining how his werewolf buddies don’t understand the importance of personal hygiene.)

“Hey.”

“Hey,” says Isaac, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I need somewhere to crash-”

“Wait, lemme guess. Scott suggested me?” cuts Stiles.

Isaac smiles sheepishly and nods.

Stiles is going to kill Scott.

Really, he will. (He’s thinking powdered Wolfsbane in Scott’s cereal.)

\--

Stiles leads Isaac to the bathroom and throws him a towel.

“This switch turns on the hot water. The shampoo is my dad’s, use it sparingly. There are new toothbrushes under the sink. You can wear some of my clothes, though I’m not sure how they’ll fit you. I’ll bring you some when you’re done. Try not to get too much blood on the walls. You’d think tile is easy to clean, but it’s not.”

Isaac watches Stiles with one eyebrow raised at an incredible incline.

“You’re not sleeping in my room covered in muck and smelling like road kill,” explains Stiles to Isaac’s accusatory eyebrow. (That has got to be a wolf power. He’s got to get Scott to teach him. Then he can kill him)

“Do you do this often?” Isaac asks, shyly as he pulls off his bloody shirt and shucks of his somewhat torn jeans.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You have no idea,” he says, reaching for the offending garments and putting them into a laundry basket.

“Uh-“

“It’s okay. You’ll get them back by tomorrow. The Stilinski Laundromat Service is extremely efficient; just ask any of our regular furry customers,” he says, putting on a British accent and curtseying.

That makes Isaac chuckle.

And Stiles has to conduct a study into chain reactions because Isaacs shy little laugh makes him feel the way he did when he had his first shot of vodka at one of Lydia’s parties when they were freshmen. (As in it burns a warm trail down his throat which pools in his belly and makes him feel all… _float-y_ inside.)

\--

It’s not the first time, that’s for sure. It started with Scott, but then again Scott has always been dropping in unannounced in the middle of the night since they were kids, (taking a time-out from all the shouting at home,) so having him use Stiles’ house as a place he could hide his broken bones from Melissa wasn’t something totally radical. But then Derek started showing up, growling and brooding (and covered in blood and leaves)- then leaving after a hot shower and some Poptarts and an hours’ worth of sleep.

Stiles is used to this, now. His room is the official werewolf halfway house.

It’s cool.

‘cause sometimes, being the one the big bad wolves turn to when they need to sleep is an extremely empowering thing, for someone who is one hundred and forty-seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bone. The human- caregiver to the monsters.

Stiles’ thinks this must be how feminists feel.  (Though feminists would probably tie him to a post and tattoo “CHAUVINIST PIG” on his forehead if he ever told this to one of them.

He thinks.

He’s not actually sure about what feminists do.)

Or maybe this is how Alfred feels, caring for Batman. Or JARVIS. If JARVIS feels anything, that is.

(And besides, it’s always nice to have someone else in the house when dad is working late into the night.)

\--

Isaac is far too tall and skinny for his clothes. The pair of sweatpants he lends him end about five inches above his feet and hang around his slim hips, no matter how tight he tries to tie the drawstring. The baggy t-shirt hangs loosely on his frame like how Stiles imagines they would a scarecrow.

(Why did the scarecrow win a Nobel Prize?

‘cause he was outstanding in his field.)

He follows Stiles downstairs, his bare feet not making much noise.

“The sleeping bag is in that cupboard. I’ll make some food. You want some hot chocolate?” Stiles asks, because no werewolf that has lodged in his fine establishment has never said no to hot chocolate. Not even Derek. (Though he drank his in two gulps and didn’t even take the time to appreciate the toasted marshmallows Stiles so caringly took the trouble of putting into it.) Stiles’ hot chocolate was sent from the gods, okay.

(Stiles thinks it’s funny, canines and chocolate, ya kno'?)

Isaac looks up at the word chocolate and nods like a wet dog, golden curls sending water everywhere, Stiles thinks in a backhanded kind of way. It’s so awkward and unsure, Stiles wonders how he manages to pull of the scary badass look so well in the daylight.  

(And once again Stiles has the incredible urge to run over and pat Isaac on the head. In both senses of that phrase.)

He puts Isaac’s clothes into the washing machine as Isaac appears at the door a few minutes later, hugging the sleeping bag to his chest, his elbows all right angles.

“It’s pink,” he says.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Stiles says.

Isaac considers this for a moment, his head tilted slightly to the left. Then he shrugs.

Stiles wonders whether Isaac likes Poptarts.

\--

It’s nearly two AM when they finally get to bed. Isaac spreads his sleeping bag at the feet of Stiles’ bed and Stiles gives him a pillow. The pink waterproof (apparently) heat insulating fabric clashes horribly with Isaac’s blonde hair.

(Derek usually forgoes the sleeping bag and makes Stiles sleep on the lazy boy in the corner and snaps if he tries to sneak onto the bed. Scott shares the bed, like an oversized rag wolf, or a little brother who never really got the hang of sleeping alone.)

“This pillow smells like you,” says Isaac from somewhere below him.

“Thank you for pointing that out, captain obvious,” says Stiles.

Isaac is quiet for a while.

“It smells nice.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything.

He wishes he knew what to say, though.

“Stiles?” comes Isaac's voice again.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

\--

It’s four AM and Stiles can’t sleep. It’s not that the room is too warm, or too cold, or that he’s not tired.

But his brain won’t shut up. It’s going on and on about werewolves and responsibilities and homework and Batman and Daleks and Isaac, the fact that Isaac is lying below him, wearing his clothes, and breathing the same air as he is, seeking shelter from him.

Isaac, with his cheekbones and hipbones and collarbones and messy blonde hair and golden tinted skin and eyes.

Isaac’s ridiculously long eyelashes and his awkward limbs and playful smile.

Isaac, Isaac, Isaac, Isaac.

\--

You see, this was bound to happen.

(It did with Derek the first few times he’d crashed at Stiles’ house. He’d had to run to the bathroom twice to wash his face with ice cold water before he could let his body react the way his brain had been to watching Derek Hale stretch, his body going taut, muscles flexing in his sleep on Stiles’ bed. Thankfully he’d been too out of it to notice anything. At least, that’s what Stiles hopes.)

Stiles wonders whether he has some kind of disorder, or maybe a mental malfunction. Or maybe he just hasn’t really acclimatised to having strangers in his room.

(Because he sure as hell has never had this problem with Scott. Sure, sleepovers when they were younger often find them in the morning both sporting awkward morning wood, but the thing about being best friends is that you can laugh about it.)

Or maybe he’s just a hormonal teenage boy with massive, depressing, insatiable _needs_.

It’s probably that last one.

\--

“Stiles?” comes Isaac’s voice, tentatively breaking the silent air.

(Stiles doesn’t jump, no matter what anyone will say. It’s just that sometimes having someone you thought was fast asleep call your name at four thirty in the morning is a bit disconcerting, okay.)

“I thought you were asleep,” Stiles mumbles, rolling over to peep down at the blonde wolf-boy lying beneath him.

“I can’t,” he says, watching Stiles with an air of uncertainty, then proceeds to sit upright and lean his face on the edge of Stiles’ bed.

“I haven’t been able to. Not really. Not since my dad-“

He stops and the sentence hangs in the air.

Stiles watches him as he stares off into space. He sees the tears glinting in Isaac’s blue like the lights of a steam engine as it makes its way to the station on a misty morning, or perhaps the sparks of a splint before they light a house doused in gasoline on fire.

(And this, this is the moment Stiles knows he has to do something before Isaac explodes of repressed _feels._ )

“Tell me about him,” he says.

Isaac looks up at that, looks at Stiles, surprised.

Stiles smiles; a small signal of encouragement.

Isaac talks.

\--

“He used to buy me baseball cards and comics every Wednesday. Then we’d go have ice cream down by the lake. Him, Camden and I. We’d skip rocks and over-feed the ducks. I always wondered why the ducks weren’t yellow. One day Camden and dad dyed one of them yellow for me. It was amazing, till we got caught. Dad had to pay a fine, but he said it was worth it.

“Mom died giving birth to me. I never knew her. I’ve seen the pictures, though. She was really pretty, I wish I’d gotten to meet her. Dad used to say I looked like her. I suppose I do. I have her jaw and her eyes, but dad’s hair. They used to tell me that she sang really well. Sinatra and Joplin and Kate Bush. Sometimes I miss her, which is weird because I’m not sure whether you can miss someone you’ve never met.

“Anyway, dad and I… we used to be so close, before Camden died. I’d tell him about my crushes and he’d bring me grocery shopping and buy me chocolate. Camden died in a car crash. The guy was drunk, his car hit Camden at ninety miles per hour. The car was a wreck, there was so much blood. I think I was twelve... He was picking me up from a sleepover. I got... scared and wanted to go home... I'd never seen my dad so depressed before. He cried for days. Then… he hit me.”

Isaac pauses, looks at Stiles uncertainly.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to talk about that,” whispers Stiles

“No. No, it’s… alright. That was the first time. It kinda, went to hell after that.”

Isaac is silent for a while as he thinks. Stiles feels the urge say something, but he holds his tongue.

(He feels the urge to press his face into Isaac’s neck and inhale and to hold him and tell him it’s okay and to stroke Isaac’s hair. But he holds still.)

“But the worst part is… the worst part is that I will always forgive him, ya know? He’s… he was… dad. He was the man who painted a duck yellow for me and taught me how to swim and ride my bike and read picture books. He’s the one who encouraged me to take up French and learn to play the guitar.

“And sometimes, before, I wished he would remember that. That he loved me, once. I wish… I wish he remembered that he was my dad.”

\--

(This is the moment where Stiles tries to imagine how life would be if his father wasn’t the way he is, kind and loving and forgiving. And for a moment the world is dark and scary and horrible. And then Stiles remembers that this is how it was every day, for Isaac.)

\--

The silence is cold like a winter morning.

Isaac continues leaning his head on Stiles bed, and Stiles watches the ceiling.

“I miss my mother. I can’t imagine how I would have turned out if I hadn’t met her,” says Stiles quietly, to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” breathes Isaac, slowly.

And suddenly Isaac is standing up and sitting down on Stiles’ bed. He doesn’t say a word as Stiles peels back the covers and lets him in, finally giving into his basal instincts. Sharing his bed with this lost lonely blonde boy, with the Adonis face and the Achilles hair.

(And this is definitely a new thing, this is shiny and bubble wrapped and unfamiliar, yet comforting and warm and brilliant. This is Isaac Lahey in his bed, awkward and tall and really quite a nice guy, after all.)

Isaac’s too tall, too lanky, but he tucks his legs in under him so they fit onto the bed. The too-short sweatpants show pale golden skin. Stiles tries to imagine them covered in bruises. He finds he can, far too easily.

His face is too close to Stiles’, his body is werewolf-warm, the way Scott’s is.

Stiles closes his eyes and sleeps.

\--

They wake up at eleven when the sun finally gets too bright through Stiles’ window.

It’s a Saturday so it doesn’t matter. Not really.

Isaac is sprawled out face-down all over Stiles. One arm hangs off the bed and the other is draped over Stiles. His face is in the crook of Stiles’ neck and his hair smells like the Sheriff’s shampoo. It’s soft, too, and it tickles, slightly. Their legs are entangled in the mass of sheets that have been unceremoniously kicked down to the foot of the bed.

“Morning,” he mumbles into the soft skin of Stiles’ collarbones.

Stiles gives in. He wraps one arm around Isaac’s waist and kisses the top of his head.

Isaac lifts himself up and blue eyes meet brown. Then his chapped lips meet Stiles’. It’s tentative, questioning. Chaste. Just a soft, steady pressure onto Stiles’ lips; sweet and simple.

When Isaac pulls away, his face is a picture of worry.  

Stiles gently pushes him back so they’re both upright. Then he closes his eyes and kisses Isaac, properly this time.

Isaac is gentle, very gentle. He kisses like he’s not sure Stiles won’t disappear in a cloud of smoke and ash.

(Which is a valid fear, given that the newest member of Beacon Hill’s Supernatural Club is a witch. Who Stiles may or may not have accidentally called a bitch.)

(Totally an accident.)

His mouth moves slowly and softly against Stiles’. He grips the curve of Stiles’ shoulders like he’s afraid he’ll leave marks. Stiles cups Isaac’s jaw with hand, strokes the skin on Isaac’s cheek with his thumb. His other hand rubs the skin on Isaac’s arm. It’s rough and male and hairy. It’s different. But it’s good.

Stiles licks Isaac’s bottom lip, lapping away at the soft flesh. Isaac sighs and lets Stiles in. Isaac tastes like honey and hot maple syrup, somehow both at the same time.

Isaac’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek, his nose pokes into the skin beneath Stiles’ eye.

The morning turns into the afternoon.

\--

They’re just two lost lonely boys, today they find a home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I was reading a Sterek fic, and then suddenly I had Stilac feels. So then I wrote this. It's completely unbeta-d (so please forgive any typos/point them out to me so I can fix them :)), because I needed to get it over with asap cause I have finals on Monday and really shouldn't be writing fic now. Anway, I hope you liked it :)


End file.
